He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. Loving was better than that. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. “John, did those roses cost a fortune?” “Like I’m going to tell you!” “Oh, John, they were so pretty, but they must have cost an arm and a leg, and you should be saving for college. ” “And the second?” “Make love to a single woman.
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